


a future feast

by Singofsolace



Series: CAOS Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: Sabrina invites Mary Wardwell over for Thanksgiving. When Zelda suffers an episode of post-traumatic stress, Mary tries her best to help her through the aftermath.A Spellwell Thanksgiving fic, written in response to the tumblr prompt: "Holding everything in doesn't help, you know?"
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: CAOS Tumblr Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545145
Comments: 20
Kudos: 100





	a future feast

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be MAJOR FLUFF, and then it became pure angst. Clearly, I can't be trusted with my own ideas. This might require a sequel to fix the darkness. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Content Warning: mentions of past abuse (including child abuse); explores the ramifications of the Caligari spell

On a stormy afternoon in late November, Zelda Spellman sat at the kitchen table, sipping her tea and reading the Torah. This was not a typical sight to be seen in the Spellman kitchen, which was made more evident by the way Hilda kept sending her sister strange looks from where she stood across from her, dicing vegetables.

It was the day before mortal Thanksgiving, and Zelda was feeling distinctly uneasy. Though it had been some time since she had declared herself the High Priestess of the Church of Lilith, she knew that her coven and the surrounding Churches of Darkness were still adjusting to her leadership. Zelda was particularly concerned about the passing of a certain Satanic High Holiday, since one of her first acts as High Priestess had been to outlaw the Feast of Feasts. While she was relatively sure her flock would be able to adjust—her brother, after all, had previously outlawed the Feast—there was the chance that having to ignore a beloved holiday would cause increased resentment and disobedience in the coming days.

There was nothing to do but face whatever would come, which was why Zelda was reading one of the False God’s scriptures. She was already familiar with the story of Genesis, but she hoped that focusing solely on Lilith’s narrative might spark some inspiration for the church’s new doctrine. However, as she worked, it became increasingly difficult to ignore her sister’s gaze burning a hole in her forehead.

“Yes, sister?” said Zelda, not bothering to tear her eyes away from the scripture.

Hilda at least had the decency to sound embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it’s just—who would have thought? —my unerringly devout sister, the leader of a Satanic Church, is reading—of all things—the _Bible_.”

“This isn’t the _Bible_ ,” said Zelda, turning the book and holding it out to show that she was reading Hebrew. Hilda didn’t share Zelda’s gift for languages, but she could at least tell that words weren’t in English, and from the shocked and far-away expression on Hilda’s face, Zelda could gather that she was remembering the last time Zelda had expressed interest in the Torah.

It was long before either of them had had their Dark Baptism, and Zelda had asked their father why the mortals had written so many different versions of stories about the same False God. Surely, only one of them could be true? So, why so many? Her questions had earned her a red, aching cheek. Her father had never been tolerant of impertinent, blasphemous questions. Unconsciously, Zelda swept a lock of hair off of her cheek at the memory. It had been centuries since she’d felt her father’s hand or belt, and yet, the pain remained, like a phantom limb.

“I didn’t mean to say you shouldn’t be reading it—I only meant—” Hilda began, seeming to know where her sister’s mind had gone.

“I know,” interrupted Zelda, giving Hilda a tight smile. As a young girl, she had gone to extreme lengths to keep Hilda from knowing their father’s true nature, but there were certain occasions—like the one on her mind—where she had been unsuccessful, and Hilda had witnessed it all. “Now, are we celebrating the mortal holiday this year or not? Has Sabrina made any mention of it?”

“She has,” said Hilda, grateful for the change of topic, though her eyes said that she was still thinking of a time long gone. “She’s asked if she can invite some guests. I told her the more the merrier.”

Zelda nearly groaned out loud, but restrained herself. Whenever they had company on Thanksgiving, Zelda wasn’t able to be as…enthusiastic…as she would like to be when she watched all those young, strong, mortal boys tackling each other to the ground.

“Surely, a quiet Thanksgiving would be much more appropriate?” said Zelda halfheartedly, closing the Torah and pushing it to the side.

“Zelds, it’s just dinner—”

“Aunties?!” came a familiar voice, shouting from the foyer.

Zelda stood, rolling her eyes. She had asked Sabrina a million times not to shout; it was undignified. Was it so difficult to simply _wait_ to speak until one was in the same room as the person one was addressing?

“Aunties!” said Sabrina, slightly out of breath as she entered the kitchen. “I’ve done something rash.”

Zelda’s heart immediately leapt into her throat. She could actually feel her blood pressure rising. Hilda, too, seemed to sense this, because she immediately untied her apron and went to Zelda’s side, placing a calming hand on her sister’s back.

“What have you done this time, love?” asked Hilda, preventing Zelda from asking the question.

“Nothing! Why do you always think the worst of me?” said Sabrina, crossing her arms.

Hilda and Zelda exchanged a look before Zelda recovered enough to say, “Then why did you say you’d done ‘something rash?’ Historically, that _is_ enough reason for us to think the worst.”

“I didn’t mean ‘dangerous.’ Just…” Sabrina trailed off, looking between Hilda and Zelda guiltily, “…impulsive.”

“If you’re trying to give your Aunt Zelda a heart attack, you’re doing a wonderful job of it, love,” said Hilda, still running her hand up and down her sister’s back, which had gone rigid at this non-clarification. “Tell us exactly what has happened.”

“I…invited someone to dinner,” said Sabrina, uncrossing her arms so she could wring out her hands.

“Is that all?” said Hilda in relief, giving Zelda one final pat before moving closer to Sabrina. “You really shouldn’t scare us like that, Sabrina. You had me thinking you’d gone to Limbo again.”

“Why did you say ‘rash?’” said Zelda, still not convinced they didn’t have reason to worry. “Your Aunt Hilda gave you permission to invite your friends, so why give us a shock so unnecessarily?”

“Well…it has to do with the person I invited,” said Sabrina, looking directly at Zelda with apologetic eyes.

“Who is it, love?” pressed Hilda.

“Miss Wardwell,” said Sabrina, so quietly that Zelda almost missed the name.

“You invited _Mary_ Wardwell? The woman our Queen killed and impersonated for months?” said Zelda, feeling faint. Deciding it was high time for a whiskey, she headed straight to the liquor cabinet.

“It’s just… I ran into her at the bookshop, and she seemed so lonely, so… I invited her for Thanksgiving.”

While Zelda poured herself a generous portion of whiskey, Hilda said, “That was very sweet of you, darling, but—”

“It’s out of the question,” said Zelda, taking a seat at the table. “That woman shouldn’t even be _alive_ , let alone in our house. Lilith might be our Queen, but she’s not infallible. What if this Wardwell woman starts asking questions? What are we going to tell her?”

“I told you it was rash,” muttered Sabrina, turning and stomping away. “Well, I’m not about to un-invite her, so we’re just going to have to figure it out.”

With that, Sabrina left the kitchen. Hilda picked up her apron once more, but made no move to put it on.

“Never a dull moment, eh, Zelds?” said Hilda, testing the waters.

“That child will be the death of me,” responded Zelda, picking up the decanter of whiskey and the Torah before heading in the direction of the living room.

* * *

The next day, Zelda spent most of Thanksgiving morning pointedly ignoring her niece, which was a feat, considering it was a family tradition to watch the parade together. Sabrina kept trying to engage her in conversation, but Hilda would intervene with some question or other to keep her niece from pestering Zelda.

Zelda knew Sabrina hadn’t intended to put pressure on them, that her only intention had been to do a good deed, but ultimately, intent didn’t matter. They were welcoming a mortal into their home—and not just any mortal—one who had been murdered by the leader of their religion and then brought back to life as a “gift” for Sabrina. The whole thing left a bad taste in Zelda’s mouth, and she didn’t like it one bit.

It wasn’t that Zelda had anything against the Wardwell woman; on the contrary, she felt she owed Mary Wardwell a debt, and knowing that the debt could never be paid was what set her teeth on edge. She may worship Lilith as her Queen, but she would never forget how much damage the woman had wreaked on the town of Greendale in her rise to the top.

This was the peril of having so much contact with mortals: one tended to start to _care_ about them, and caring about them was dangerous.

The hours passed quickly—much too quickly—and before Zelda knew it, she was helping Hilda bring out all of the dinner food and set it on the table. Without warning, her mind’s eye flashed back to exactly a year ago, when they had laid out a similar feast for the Weird Sisters and… the Blackwoods.

As she set Hilda’s vegetable lasagna down, she felt a chill raise the hair on her arms. Suddenly, she could see Faustus at the end of the table—but no, Faustus wasn’t there, he _couldn’t_ be there, in front of her. It was _impossible._

“Zelda?”

Zelda’s eyes went wide. She heard Hilda’s voice coming out of Phantom-Faustus’ mouth. His lips were curled up into a smile, and he was crooking his finger at her, ordering her to come to him, and it was like she was under the Caligari spell all over again. She was walking towards him, unable to stop herself, no matter how insistently her mind told her body to stop. His smile held a sinister promise, one that would leave her body broken and her mind shattered. He was asking her to sit on his lap, and really, she couldn’t do that, not with Hilda and Sabrina watching, not after everything that had happened, not—

_“Zelda?”_

An unexpected hand on her shoulder had her screaming. Louder and louder she screamed, but the spell would not break, it just went on and on, and Faustus was laughing now, and she was banging her fists against her head, desperate to make it stop, to make him go, to free herself—

“Auntie!?”

No, no, no. Sabrina shouldn’t be here. Sabrina shouldn’t see _this_. Why hadn’t she prevented this? Why didn’t she protect her niece? She had failed her, so utterly failed _everyone_ —

The hand on her shoulder tightened, and suddenly there was ammonia placed directly beneath her nose. The smell was so strong, Zelda stopped screaming and jerked her head sharply to the side, only to nearly bang her head into her sister’s.

“Zelda?” said Hilda, placing the smelling salts onto the table so that she could take Zelda by the arms. “Can you see me now?”

“Of course, I can see you,” said Zelda, her voice strident with growing hysteria.

“Auntie?” said Sabrina nervously as she put out the place settings. “Are you okay?”

“Fine—” said Zelda, just as there was a knock at the door.

Sabrina looked between her two aunts with worry. “Should I…?”

“Well, you can’t very well leave a guest out in the cold,” snapped Zelda, tearing herself away from Hilda and fleeing into the parlor to catch her breath.

Hilda followed close behind, bringing the smelling salts with her. “Zelda—you just—you scared the heaven out of me.”

Zelda went straight for the whiskey, but her hands were shaking too much to open the glass decanter.

“Zelda…I don’t think you should have a drink right now.”

“Have you hexed the damn thing to stay closed?” Zelda snarled, unable to get a proper grip.

“No, but listen to me, sister—I’ve never seen something like that—”

Zelda whipped around, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “And you never will again. I’ll handle it.”

“With whiskey?” Hilda said, finally moving to help her open the decanter and pour a glass.

“For now, yes,” said Zelda, accepting the glass and downing its entire contents before passing it back to her sister.

Hilda refilled it silently, watching with curiosity as Zelda took the new glass gingerly, and did not repeat the motion.

“Does the whiskey help…whatever that was?” said Hilda, lowering her voice as they heard Sabrina and Miss Wardwell pass by in the hall.

“I don’t know,” said Zelda, putting the glass down on side table before collapsing onto the couch. “I just need a minute. You should go see to our…guest.”

Hilda gave her a look that plainly said: _Sabrina can manage_.

“Was it like one of your nightmares?” said Hilda, sitting down on the couch as well but being sure to give her sister some space.

“Later, Hilda,” said Zelda, her eyes pleading. “Let’s eat. I don’t want the Wardwell woman thinking something is wrong.”

“We can just tell her you’re ill,” offered Hilda as she watched Zelda attempt to get up. “You could go up to bed and have a lie-down.”

“If it’s all the same to you…” said Zelda, trailing off as Hilda extended a hand to help her stand. “I’d rather not be… alone.”

With that uncharacteristically honest admission, Zelda swept out of the room, leaving her whiskey glass on the table. Hilda stared at it for a long time, frozen, before following her out.

* * *

Mary Wardwell was a lovely dinner guest, as it turned out. She was neither too talkative nor too silent; she had good table manners and periodically dabbed her napkin against the corners of her lips, even when there was nothing to wipe away (Zelda would never admit to staring at the woman’s lips for long enough to notice this point, however); she did not inquire about Hilda and Zelda’s late arrival to the table, though Zelda suspected Sabrina had properly made their excuses.

Zelda hardly spoke during the meal, worried she might start hallucinating again, which seemed especially likely, considering the woman who was sitting across from her was the spitting image of the person she had come to know as Lilith.

 _What would poor Mary Wardwell do if I accidentally called her, “My Queen?”_ Zelda wondered.

After dessert—which in no way resembled Hilda’s truth cake—Zelda excused herself, and retired to the living room, where she put on a football game. Perhaps the Saints and the Falcons would help her forget her ex-husband’s beckoning finger—

“Miss Spellman?” came a voice from behind her. Zelda tore herself from her thoughts, her eyes taking in a particularly vicious sacking of a quarterback, before turning to see Mary Wardwell hovering over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Sabrina is helping your sister clean up the dinner. They told me I could… ‘have a nightcap’ with you—I mean, not ‘with you’ if you don’t want one—I just meant to say, they told me to go to the parlor, and said you’d offer me one, and—”

“Do you like football, Miss Wardwell?” said Zelda as she stood to fill two glasses with whiskey.

“I must admit… I’m not really a sports fan,” said Miss Wardwell shyly as she took the glass.

“Well, I am. Do you mind if we watch the game while we have our nightcap?”

“I don’t mind at all. This is your home, after all,” said Mary, seeming to debate sitting down on the couch beside Zelda before finally deciding it would be acceptable.

“I wanted to apologize,” Zelda began, but stopped as the words caught in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say to this Mary Wardwell—the real Mary Wardwell—but none of it would do either of them any good.

“Whatever for?” said Miss Wardwell, her eyes wide with confusion.

“For being late to dinner. You must think us terrible hosts,” said Zelda, sighing as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. She was feeling delightfully warm, and Lilith’s—no, Miss Wardwell’s—body was so close, and she could almost feel as if the past were merely a memory. She was safe from it—and him—so long as this peculiar woman was beside her.

“There’s no need to apologize. Sabrina told me you were feeling ill?” prodded Mary Wardwell, as if she either wasn’t sure this was true, or wasn’t sure she should bring it up.

“Are you…a discreet sort of person, Mary—may I call you Mary?” asked Zelda, suddenly feeling the urge to confess, not to her Queen, nor to her sister, but to this stranger whose body had been used—or perhaps just imitated—for so long, without her knowledge. Even if Mary Wardwell didn’t remember, surely, somewhere deep down, there was a small piece of her that would be able to relate to Zelda’s experience?

“You may, and yes, I would say I am…discreet,” said Mary, momentarily distracted by one of the football teams—she wasn’t sure which—scoring a touchdown.

“I’m not physically ill,” said Zelda, the confession coming out in a rush. “I have post-traumatic stress, you see?”

Mary Wardwell turned her body towards Zelda’s, moving just a tad closer than would perhaps be considered proper. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you a veteran?”

The question takes Zelda so much by surprise that she doesn’t have the chance to offer the lie quickly enough for it to be believable. How easy would it be to just say, “yes,” and have everything tied up nicely? No one in the town would contest it—they didn’t know her well enough to be able to say differently.

“Have I said something wrong?” said Mary, reaching out to place a hand on Zelda’s knee. Rather than making Zelda flinch, as unexpected contact tended to do these days, it simply made her want to relish the weight and heat of the woman’s hand.

“No, no,” said Zelda, placing her own hand over Mary’s. “It’s just—I haven’t told anyone. My sister knows some of it, and so does Sabrina…but I haven’t told the entire truth. Not to a single soul.”

Mary nodded, leaning in. Zelda could smell a hint of perfume, the scent of which she couldn’t place.

“You don’t have to tell me, but if you’d like to get something off your chest…?”

Suddenly aware of their proximity, Zelda’s eyes betrayed her by flickering to Mary’s lips. She just wanted to be close to someone who wasn’t an immediate family member or a follower of her church. Perhaps Miss Wardwell presented the perfect opportunity to have a relationship with someone with no responsibility or history attached… But then, as Zelda looked into the woman’s warm, honest eyes, she realized that this was just another selfish, self-destructive urge. She couldn’t get involved with a mortal woman. Especially when she was going in and out of flashbacks at a moment’s notice. What kind of mess would she make if she acted on this vague flickering of desire?

“Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know?” said Mary, reaching up with her free hand to pat Zelda’s arm.

“I know,” admitted Zelda, “but I’m just not ready. I should never have mentioned it.”

“I’m glad you did,” said Mary, running her hand in a comforting motion down her arm. “I was worried during dinner. I thought you were seeing a ghost.”

“What?!” said Zelda, leaping to her feet.

“I’m sorry?” said Mary, following her up. “I didn’t mean to offend you—or… scare you?”

“What ‘ghost?’ Why would you say _ghost_? What did Sabrina tell you?!” said Zelda, her eyes wild as she paced the room, the football game completely forgotten.

“Sabrina didn’t tell me anything,” insisted Mary, holding her hands out in a placating motion. “I’m sorry—I’ve upset you—do you want me to go get your sister…?”

“No! No,” said Zelda, putting a hand to her forehead. “Don’t do that. She’ll just bring out the smelling salts again.”

Mary nodded to show she understood. “Well, is there anything you _would_ like me to do?”

“Just—tell me what you meant,” said Zelda, trying to control her breathing.

“I only meant that you kept looking at the head of the table, like you could see someone sitting there.”

Zelda felt faint. Mary must have noticed this, because she immediately rushed to her side. “Are you alright, Miss Spellman?”

“Zelda,” she corrected, waving Mary off.

“Oh—Zelda? Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I’m sure,” said Zelda, indicating they should sit back down. “I’m sorry for my…erratic behavior.”

“I feel as if all we’ve done is apologize to one another,” said Mary, watching as Zelda took a huge drink of her whiskey.

“Well, let’s stop doing that. Let’s start over, and this time, there will be no more apologies. Let’s just watch the game.” Zelda raised her glass, as if in a toast, and Mary followed, “To starting over.”

“To starting over,” agreed Mary, smiling softly.

Zelda and Mary spent the next two hours sitting side by side, drinking whiskey and marveling at the athleticism on the screen. Mary found that she didn’t have to fake her interest, after a while, and Zelda felt more at ease than she had in weeks. Hilda and Sabrina eventually joined them, and in the end, Zelda decided that they really ought to extend their hospitality to mortals much more often—at least, one _particular_ mortal.


End file.
